Avery held out his hand, Marie took it, and they made to walk away.
“I can take a hundred, just so I don’t gotta lug the damn thing back on the truck.”
They stopped and smiled at one another, proud of their charade’s success.
“Sold!”
Now it sat in the corner of the living room, as it had for these last fifty years. Half a century worth of books and gewgaws. Worn, pulp paperbacks and hardcovers had long ago filled it to capacity. The piece now stood nearly hidden behind stacks of books and magazines.
Avery sighed and dropped his wool coat on the floor. “Hang it up, Ave,” he could almost hear Marie holler as he went to the kitchen.
Fifty-seven years with the woman. A lifetime.
They had met when he was twenty. Marie a clerk at the Save-U-Mor, and Avery a long-haired hood who worked at The Sound Pound, a record shop next door. When shopping, he would make a point of going to her register, telling her stupid jokes. She pretended not to find him amusing. He asked her out but made it sound like she was doing him a favor. She accepted but disguised it as a pitiful gesture.
They saw Night of the Living Dead and had a great time, so they went out again. Love notes clipped to timecards, under windshield wipers, roses on car seats. He once gave her a bottle of rain. With Marie, a mundane trip to the grocery store was a loving adventure. The years fluttered by like birds.
Until now.
Avery heated up a can of chicken soup, and set a steaming bowl of it down on the only clear spot on the dinner table. Staring ahead, he slowly sipped the broth.
All the mail from the week—bills, junk mail, newspapers—sat in a heap beside him. There were pencils and pens, a pile of clipped coupons, a roll of paper towels, a dismantled cuckoo clock he had been fixing for the last three years, a Mason jar full of pennies. He shook his head and smiled. “How ever did you tolerate me, woman?”
Sipping golden broth, it was hard to get it past the lump in his throat.
They had been watching Jeopardy when the stroke hit.
“What is Pygmalion?” she had uttered, followed by a strange noise.
Avery sat with his nose in one of his old pulps. “What?” he responded to the question he assumed she must have asked him. No answer came. After a few minutes, he looked over and saw her slumped in the chair, breathing fast and heavy, her face drawn on one side. Her blue eyes, wide and full of panic, fixed upon him. She whimpered like a child.
“My God,” he said, and jumped for the phone.
In the hospital, he had sat in the uncomfortable chair and watched her wane, a beautiful picture fading before his eyes. With their gnarled fingers intertwined, he reminisced about their courtship, their wedding day, how divine she had looked in her dress, and how he had made that silly face when they raised their toast because he hated the taste of alcohol. But most importantly, how very lucky he was. He whispered about the birth of their son, and how beautiful she had been while she carried him, and how blessed he was to have spent every one of the last 20,805 days with her as his wife. He told her how much he loved her, no less than one hundred times.
Small sighing breaths were the only response from Marie, until even they disappeared on that fifth day.
Avery recalled all of this as he stood at the sink and washed the soup dish.
He began the long process of filling baggies with warm water from the tap. It had been a long week—the longest he would ever endure—and he was dog-tired, but it needed to be done. The window over the sink steamed up as he did so. He turned each baggie upside down to ensure the seal wouldn’t leak, and then one by one placed them gently into the storage tote by his feet.
The Christmas decorations Marie had wanted him to put up last weekend were now sitting in a pile beside the dining-room table. He had only managed to get a single strand of sliver tinsel looped along the bannister. The light reflected on it like tears.
The tote weighed heavy on his old bones—his cross to bear—as he carried it upstairs.
Aside from a few days here and there when he was away on business, or Marie was visiting her sister, Avery had not slept alone in all the time they’d been married. He wasn’t sure he could do it now.
He pulled back the covers and stared at Marie’s indentation in the mattress. She always slept in the same position, curled up like a question mark. His arthritic fingers touched the spot where her shape remained, and he sobbed quietly. He slowly removed the baggies from the tote, and placed them into the impression of her. From the hook on the bathroom door, he took her bathrobe and covered the baggies, tucking it under each one.
In the dim light of the bedroom, Avery removed his clothing and turned off the bedside lamp. He draped an arm over the warm shape where Marie had once slept, where he felt her now sleeping. He breathed in the smell of soap and sweat and familiarity.
Just before sleep pulled him down, something lightly brushed his tear-streaked cheek. Avery imagined one of Marie’s silver strands of hair, decorated in his tears, like tinsel.
R. Phillip Roberts
THE DAY I DISCOVERED THE TRUTH ABOUT THE MAN IN THE RED SUIT
I HAD HARDLY slept a wink all night, when at nearly five o'clock in the morning, I once again opened my eyes. Another noise in the darkness of the night had me shooting straight out of bed and over to the window, only to discover that another branch had fallen, or quite possibly the barn door had blown shut again, as a result of the harsh blustery winter wind.
A fresh blanket of white covered the ground, hiding the tracks we had made over the last few days in the previous snowfall. In the light of the full moon everything took on an eerie cast, especially since the vast whiteness changed the appearance of all that I had grown familiar with over the last thirteen years of my life.
With disappointment in my heart, I returned to bed, just as I had all previous times, with a promise to myself that I would not jump out of bed again; that I would lay back down and fall asleep. Morning would come eventually, and if I could just fall asleep for a little while, then when I next opened my eyes, it would be time to go downstairs with the others.
Yeah, right! Like that was going to work. It was Christmas Eve, and all through the house, not a creature was … well, you get the idea. I was filled with the excitement and anticipation that any child has at this time of year. And, I wanted to catch a glimpse of Santa, of course, even though my older brothers had told me that he did not exist. Liars!
I know, I know! You wonder why a thirteen year old girl such as myself still believes in Santa Claus, right? Well, I believe in him because I actually saw him last year. But he did not fly through the air, nor did he have a team of magical reindeer to guide his sleigh from rooftop to rooftop; none of that nonsense. No siree! But Santa did come by sleigh, however.
It was one year ago today, on a night just like this, in fact. As I lay in bed, I heard a sound. It was a familiar sound to be sure, but when one hears the approach of horses in the middle of the night out here in the country, it usually means something really bad has happened. So of course, I jumped out of bed and threw on my robe. I ran to the window, and to my surprise, saw that it was in fact Santa, coming across the field.
Well, who else could it have been? The man wore a red suit, a red hat, with black shiny boots on his feet. His long beard was white, and his belly was big and round. Once he brought the team of horses that pulled the sleigh to a stop, he climbed out, pulling a large sack with him, which he slung over his shoulder before approaching the house.
As if he could sense my presence, the jolly fat man stopped dead in his tracks and looked up at my window. For a moment, I was too scared to even breathe, but when he smiled and shook his head, I sighed with relief. Then the man bowed his head and continued up the path to the front door. I swear that I had heard the faintest sound of laughter, as the wind howled outside my window, blowing the large falling flakes of snow aloft in the air as they descended gracefully to the ground.
Too afraid to go downstair
s and meet the man face to face, I silently crept down the hall. Taking a seat at the top of the stairs, I listened to the front door creak open, then gently shut. The sound of scraping followed, as I assumed that Santa was wiping his feet on the carpet near the entry, laid out for just that purpose.
When I heard him walk across the hardwood floor, with a soft creaking in the floorboards every few steps, my heart began to race. The sound of his bag slumping to the floor almost made my heart jump straight out of my chest. Then I heard a soft chuckle, and then a clunk. When I heard the blaze of the fire in the hearth begin to crackle and sizzle, I knew that the jolly old man had added a fresh log to the fireplace.
By the sounds that followed, I could tell that Santa had begun to set the contents of his hefty bag around our tree. While he went about his business, he whistled. It was a familiar tune. I believe the words to it had something to do with being naughty or nice, making a list, checking it twice, or something like that.
After about fifteen minutes, but really, it felt more like an eternity, everything went silent. I sat there at the top of the stairwell, straining my young ears to hear something, anything, in the silence. Then Santa chuckled once more, before opening the front door and disappearing back out into the cold winter night.
In a dash, I was on my feet and down the stairs. I ran to the window and peered through the curtains, just in time to see Santa boarding his sleigh. With a crack of the reigns and a shout, the horses took off. Santa and his sled pulled away. I watched until he was completely out of sight.
When I turned around, grinning from ear to ear, I was amazed to see all the colorfully wrapped gifts he had placed under the tree. Then my eyes fell upon the table where we had set out a plate of cookies and a glass of milk. The plate held not a crumb, and the glass had been drained bone dry; not a trace that either had held anything.
More excited than ever, I dashed back up to bed, but I was way too anxious to sleep. I waited until I heard the others awake, then I went downstairs, as well. When I told everyone my story, no one believed me, except for my wide-eyed younger sister, and of course, my mother and father. My older brothers, twins they are, kept saying that I had been dreaming, because Santa was make believe, and only small children believed in him.
In response to their mean words, I stuck out my tongue and called them liars, then said that they were jealous because I had seen Santa, and not them. It had gone on like that all day, until my father finally got tired of it and told us all to shut up, or we would all get a switching taken to us in the barn.
I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know, Mom was standing in my door and whispering, "Wake up, Carol! You can come downstairs, now!"
"Did Santa finally come? I was up all night, but for this last hour, and I never saw him," I explained to my mother, but she never answered and went to wake the others.
I quickly donned my robe and slippers, then went out into the hall. I almost ran into my little sister, Carmen, who was stumbling her way sleepily toward the staircase; one hand rubbing her weary eyes, the other clutching her favorite rag doll. When she saw me, she took my hand, and together, we began descending the stairs.
As the sky had just begun to lighten on the horizon, it was still pretty dark inside the house, so I had grabbed the kerosene lamp from next to my bed, before entering the hall.
Once we were halfway down the stairs, however, I no longer needed it to see. When Sis and I were on the last few steps, we could see that Mom had lit all the candles on the tree. It was so pretty with all the wrapped presents spread out beneath.
It looked just like one of those picture postcards from long ago that Mother had stowed away in a dusty old shoebox under her bed.
With excitement in our hearts, we ran the last few yards over to the shimmering tree, where my mother and the twins were already beginning to huddle upon the floor, and we knelt down beside them. The boys were craning their necks with squinty eyes, each attempting to get a peek at the names on the tags to see which of the packages belonged to them, of course.
When they began arguing over who had the most, you can bet that Cadence Piper put an end to it. My mother slapped them each upside the head. "Now, behave! Or, I'm gonna send the both of you to your room! No presents! And no dinner! You got it?" my mother scolded them. And when Mother scolded you, you got the evil eye; the one that informed you that she meant some serious business.
Now the twins, my brothers Billy and Willy, were four years older than me, and they were fidgety boys. They found it hard to resist the urge each had to push and shove the other, spewing graphic verbal insults meant to get a rise out of one another. They were big boys who liked to rough-house and wrestle to see which one could get the other on the ground.
When they were younger, the boys were much smaller than the other kids their age. Billy handled it well, but Willy had been teased much more, and was branded with the nickname, 'Wee Willy Wanker'. My brother never forgot that, so when he got a little older and got much bigger from working out with Billy, they both got their revenge on all those others who had taunted them in the past.
Well, even though they were some big boys now, with a lot of meat on their bones – very little fat – Mother did not let them intimidate her. It was she who now took the boys out to the barn for a god switching, when they needed it. Father refused, as he said they were now men. I think he was just a little afraid one of them might hit him back one day.
Once again, Mother raised her voice to the twins to get them settled down. My eyes wandered to the table; the one we always put the milk and cookies out on. The glass remained two-thirds full, and the plate of cookies still held the two large ones that had been placed there, with a single bite taken from just one.
Something was wrong. I could feel it. Santa never left anything behind, other than the gifts. The plate had always been clear of even the tiniest of crumb, and the glass always drained to clarity, as if milk had never touched the inside of it.
Mom told us that we would have to wait until after dinner to open the gifts. My brothers sighed and guffawed in unison, whining aloud, "Why not? Huh, Mom? Can we … pleeeaassssse?"
Instead of scolding the twins, Mom said, "I will let you have your stockings! But, only if you promise to be good all through dinner, and then we can open the gifts."
With that, she got up and went over to the fireplace, pulling down each of our stockings, handing them out to the each of us. Greedily, we all shoved our hands inside, hastily pulling out their contents. There were a variety of candies, shiny little trinkets found on father's excursions, and best of all, fresh-made beef jerky.
I could tell by its thick smoky aroma that it had been cured quite recently. I took a bite, immediately tasting the freshness. Now this was a real treat. It had been months since there had been any meat to be had, and our stores had nearly run dry of the potatoes and apples picked from our fields, before winter had set in.
As we all sat their chewing on the beef treats, I thought about how it used to be, back before the plague had come. We led a simple farm life, and had simple family values, but we were aware of what was going on in the big cities. I mean, we did have cable, at least before all the electricity went dead everywhere.
The epidemic had begun two-and-a-half years previous, and had spread across the country like a brush fire. People were dying left and right as the result from the bites. Creatures that had once been human, like us, attacked anyone living with frenzied rage. The crazy thing was, those that had fallen dead, then began to get back up and walk around. But they were not living. They had become monsters, just like the ones that had bitten them.
Father said that we were safe in the country, so we had stayed, and never really had much trouble. The only time they came around at all, was in the warmer months, but there were never many. Father and the twins would use them for target practice, killing them dead with hunting rifle blasts to the head. In the winter months, when it was harshly cold, they never appeared at all. F
ather had started saying, 'If the monsters don't get us, we'll all die of starvation!' It scared me to think that he might be right.
Then it hit me. Father had not yet returned from one of his many foraging hikes. Sometimes they lasted for weeks, but he had always made it home for Christmas Eve, even when the world had been normal.
I asked my mother, "When will Father return?"
"You will see your father, soon, Carol! Now finish up, everyone! Dinner is almost ready!" Mother then disappeared into the kitchen to finish preparing for dinner. For the first time since I had turned nine, my mother did not ask for my help.
Not giving much more thought to it, I went back to snapping off another bite of jerky, while giving closer inspection to each of the little trinkets from my stocking. The twins and Carmen were also doing the same, while we all waited for mother to return.
When next she came into the dining room, carrying a large silver platter, Mother made the announcement. Each of us dashed over to the table and took our places, Mother setting the platter in the centre. By its sheer size and the strain that Mother had looked under while carrying it, there had to be something bountiful hidden under the shiny lid.
Mother finished placing a bowl of sliced apples, then another with steaming boiled potatoes, upon the table, and then she spoke. "We have been blessed this year, my children! Eat it up while you can, for who knows when next we will meet such good fortune! At least with what's been smoked, we're sure to see the coming of spring alive and well!"
Mother smiled, then leaned over, clutched the handle, and pulled the lid off of the platter. What lay before us was startling. With a loud gasp, my siblings and I were shocked to see our father; or what was left of him, anyway. His arms and legs were missing, but the rest of him was there. The skin was blackened and charred, cracked in places, the pinkish juicy meat bubbling within. Where Father's eyes were supposed to be, there were empty sockets, but for some residue of gooey looking gelatin.
Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology Page 70
